


you’ll find your way home (you always do)

by crispytins



Series: aere perennius [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Oh The Pining Of It All, Overabundance of Celestial Metaphors, S3 finale, lancelot I miss you, letter writing, mutual pining on low oven heat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispytins/pseuds/crispytins
Summary: Lancelot finds that his mind is often occupied by Merlin.
Relationships: Lancelot & Percival (Merlin), Lancelot/Merlin (Merlin)
Series: aere perennius [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1723933
Comments: 51
Kudos: 227





	you’ll find your way home (you always do)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [odinstark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/odinstark/gifts).



> huzzah to pillows and celestial metaphors and my tendency to never post ever (a habit which will hopefully change soon). 
> 
> oh by the way, this one’s for you, mayse.

For the past decade of Lancelot’s life, he hadn’t really gotten the opportunity to think: what is _home?_

Too many minutes and hours and days and months had been dedicated to the fighting of men, of smearing warm blood from his palms and sharpening his sword to swing in an endless, yawning cycle. A cycle that, yes, he’d grown more than used to. The comfortable weight of his hilt that obeyed his every command had molded itself into his skin, slowly but surely becoming a permanent appendage.

Not that Lancelot was ungrateful for it or anything; his skill with his sword provided him with the bare minimum. Sometimes it gave him a bed, or cold water and a lukewarm dinner. A new jacket for the winter. In any present moment, swordsmanship provided him with just enough to get by. But, though he disliked complaining about it, there was something lacking in it all. Fighting could reap any man many an award; but fighting all alone could not provide a sense of stability that any other skills could. No, his swordsmanship was by no means _home._

“It’s not that I don’t know what home is anymore,” he explained to Percival. They’d been traversing the southern borders, and were picking their way through a storm-ravaged forest. Percival had a long stick in his hands, which he was breaking up into small pieces as he listened to Lancelot. 

“I remember it, though it grows faint in my recollections.” Lancelot sighed. “Clouded. Like a fog has settled across my memories.” 

“Perhaps it has,” Percival said quietly. It had only been a few months since he had met Percival outside of a smoldering village, where the smoke of glowing flame had scraped the moon. Sometimes, Lancelot would meet his eyes and see remnants of flickering embers.

“For me,” the taller man took a breath, “It’s just the opposite. I recall it well. As well as anyone is able to recall anything.” 

The twig parts he broke grew smaller and smaller. His fingertips were crushing them, letting bark bits fall into the muddy trail. “I reckon it hurts more, to be able to remember every little detail, of your mum and dad, and the look of the town you lived in. The…” Percival shook his head. “Just everything.” 

He placed a hand upon Lancelot’s shoulder as an afterthought. “I don’t mean to sound envious of lost memory. Truly, I don’t.” 

“No, no.” Lancelot looked up at him, and patted his hand. “It’s fine, I understand. It’s strange, though, for us to desire such different things.” 

Percival squeezed his shoulder. “Not really, I think. It’s like what they say, you know? That some people connect for odd reasons.” 

Lancelot smiled. “Our connection could be odder. You’d be surprised by how many other friends I’ve made from fights.” 

“Oh, so it’s not just me?” Percival asked. There was an amused lilt to his voice. “Who else have you met? God, I feel tricked.” 

There was a brief pause until Lancelot hummed. “Well,” he began, and a beaming man with a scarf from a kingdom far, far away, crossed his memory. There was a warm swelling in his chest as he spoke. “You see, I was in the forest one day. And out of nowhere, I saw this _man,_ completely oblivious to the world around him...” 

.. 

The man was named Merlin. Like the bird, evidently.

.. 

Merlin, Percival learned, was a hurricane of a man. Though Lancelot kept his magic a secret tucked safely in his pockets, he spared no expense in describing Merlin’s bravery, in his foolhardiness, in a stupid, red-hot selfless streak that always seemed to save the day. 

There was a runaway story of a griffin seemingly spun from thin air, but Lancelot was adamant that it was real.

A bitter story of nearly becoming a knight, but sweetened mildly with the memory of getting drunk with Merlin after a banquet dinner and stumbling through the halls, laughter echoing against night washed walls. 

A riveting tale of a damsel in distress and the Prince of Camelot, and...Merlin, who Percival imagined was probably quite important to Lancelot, given the man’s propensity to talk about him when given the chance.

Percival pretended not to notice how bright Lancelot’s expression had gotten, how Lancelot would laugh and shake his head every time he recalled something from Camelot. 

He feigned ignorance at the brightness that shone from Lancelot’s chest and lit up the forest, when Merlin’s name fell past his lips, familiar and warm, in recalling a particularly dangerous heist and escape from a dungeon festering with bandits.

So when Lancelot remarked, rather randomly one evening that Merlin was the bravest man he’d ever met, Percival was in no place to contend. He only nodded, watching the star beneath Lancelot’s skin bring forth more light. 

Whatever you say, Percival wanted to say. I’ll take your word for it.

..   
  


The damsel in distress was a lovely village girl named Guinevere. “I met her through Merlin,” Lancelot had said. “She was brave. And so very skilled. I have no doubt that her heart was made of gold.” 

But when pressed in the moment to speak about her more, Lancelot was obstinate. Though he had saved her from the clutches of evil and had risked his life to rescue her, the name Guinevere only made Lancelot’s heart sink.   
  


The leaves fell around them, the sky shifted from blue to black to pink, and Percival resisted the urge to ask. At least, for a few days.

  
..

“Did you love her?” Percival asked suddenly. 

“Hmm?” Lancelot pretended to be fascinated with fastenings of his vest, but Percival wasn’t having it. 

“Come now,” Percival coaxed. His curiosity was genuine and earnest; Lancelot was not one to linger bitterly upon the past, after all. “Guinevere? You mentioned at some point that you didn’t want to leave her.” 

Lancelot’s shoulders sagged. He shuddered slightly at the memory, and closed his eyes for a few seconds. “I didn’t,” he conceded quietly. “But I just...surmised that she’d found someone more trusting. More stable. I regret now that I didn’t give her much of a choice.” He sighed. 

“He’s better for her, though, you see. He’ll provide her with everything, with things I can’t even begin to fathom. Stability, for one thing.” Lancelot began to tick off fingers. “Money, a future, a throne. He’s a Prince, after all.” 

_Arthur. Prince Arthur,_ Percival remembered. And so he patted Lancelot’s back sympathetically and didn’t say anything more. 

.. 

  
  
Percival discovered fairly quickly that Lancelot was actually more than just a swordsman, excellent swordsman that he was.

He was also an avid letter writer.

He wrote frequently, sending them off whenever they passed through bustling towns to gather more supplies. Lancelot kept a quill and ink in his satchel, and in a small leather bag, kept a tied stack of letters, all from Camelot, neatly tied with twine. 

Some of the letters were yellowed with age, and often had stains on the flaps. But Lancelot kept careful care of them, always unfolding them with a reverence that did not escape Percival’s notice, and read through a select few every night. 

It was a private affair that Percival didn’t ever impress on. God only knew what they contained: sonnets? Poetry, perhaps? Awful jokes that were so awful that they had to be shared as soon as they were conceived? Hell if Percival knew. God, who was he to say. 

He was never one to attach value onto such things as letters, as dried parchment and worn quills in his satchel. He didn’t have anyone worth that time and effort in his life except maybe Lancelot. A life of solitude, of packing and being on the move, meant placing select value into few precious things. So by these traveling principles, Percival had placed significance into his sword, forged by his brother, and his chain mail, cut by his father.

In his very honest opinion, letters were only as valuable as their senders. 

He felt privy to ask then if the letters were from Merlin. 

Lancelot never answered outrightly; he merely smiled, a flicker of a thing, before opening them up and reading them silently by the fire. But like most things between them now, Percival knew the answer. And the enigma of Merlin became ever the more difficult to unravel.

.. 

They had taken brief residence in an inn at Haldor before a frantic letter from Merlin arrived. Lancelot packed his bags the moment he finished the letter, and Percival swiftly followed his lead. 

“He needs us,” Lancelot explained. _Merlin_. He added quickly, “And Prince Arthur, too. They both need us. They’re good men.” Percival only nodded and followed suit. Packed his bags, strode out the door, hot on Lancelot’s heels.

Lancelot spent the next three days alternating from complete silence into worried mumbling. At their makeshift forest camps, he read through his letter stack, and stopped. Gathered the letters into his arms and simply sat there upon tree stumps and dampened grass, unmoving.

Percival did not say anything then, either, and silently took his jacket off and draped it over Lancelot’s shoulders. 

.. 

They continued on days later. Percival had tried to convince Lancelot not to worry and coaxed him to eat what traveling rations they had.

Percival asked Lancelot to tell him again of the time Merlin had snuck him into the kitchens to find the mead stash and cold biscuits. 

With a sad smile, Lancelot obliged. But it didn’t take long for his mouth to gradually soften at the edges and drag the sun upwards.   
  


..

Percival decided on a whim that he rather liked Merlin. Had he met the man ever? Of course not. 

But was Lancelot’s fondness of him just enough to make Percival tide over and think him all things good? Well, perhaps so, yes.

..

  
Percival’s village used to have a tradition of making shapes from different star clusters, giving them names and stories. 

“They change, every season,” he explained. “See, look at this.” He unsheathed his sword, and using the firelight’s glow that reflected off it, pointed out seven large stars that winked gently against the unfurled black sky. “My father made this shape during a summer like this one. Called it a dragon.” 

The sword’s tip traced out the body, and he tried to indicate where a snout was with two of the stars that gleamed golden-white. “He said that the dragon was made from magic, and that it was forever chasing ruthless warriors across the night sky.” 

“Magic,” Lancelot whispered. Percival nodded, and launched into the birth of the story, of the warriors who tried to take the dragon away, but Lancelot had stopped listening.

For now, he was staring up at the two stars, and felt a pang as he made out their dim, golden glow. 

There was something achingly familiar about them. Like two eyes watching over him from the vast stretches of the universe, anchoring onto his location and stilling him to the earth. 

Two golden eyes that he imagined would whirl back to a soft green-blue. He pulled his cloak over his head and sighed heavily. 

..

They trekked from Haldor into the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and caught sight of a worn blonde knight from below the precipice, with darkened fighters gaining on them from down below in the ravine. Lancelot identified him as Arthur Pendragon in an instant.

A few other men around the edges of the rocks were cornered, a woman as well, pale and shaken, by bandits in badly cut dark fabric. The bandits were clustered near the midriff of the small cliff. Together, Lancelot and Percival pushed five boulders down through the passage, listening for any resounding screams, and leapt down to greet Arthur’s company.

Percival shook hands with Arthur, beaming at the prince’s proud lauding of his strength and stature. Guinevere was on the side, and she cast Lancelot a small smile. Merlin was standing behind her, muck covering his face, with a gleaming sword in his hand. 

Lancelot blinked. 

Merlin looked thinner than their last encounter; his face seemed gaunt now, a touch pale around his cheeks. His clothes were muddied and frayed, but that didn’t stop him from shooting Lancelot a quick nod and smile. The neckerchief was still there, as was the old jacket and same colored tunic. 

His eyes still resembled turquoise sea foam. 

_He hasn’t changed._

Lancelot swallowed hard, and valiantly tried to ignore Percival’s eyes burning into the back of his head. The others began to clear into a cave Arthur was leading the others into, but Merlin remained outside; Lancelot had made no move to follow. The warlock chanced a step closer to Lancelot, as if in disbelief. The leaves twisted gently as the sun pulsed through them, bathing the forest in green and golden light.

“It’s been a while, hey?” Merlin asked. He looked at Lancelot’s sword in his belt. “You’re still fighting, I see.”   
“Mm,” Lancelot hummed in assent. He grinned, shaking his head at the sword held fast in Merlin’s hand. “And you’re still up to the same magic tricks. You were never any good with a sword.”  
  


“Such a rude assumption,” Merlin said much too solemnly, before rippling laughter bubbled forward. The gleaming golden sword fell into the grass. He crushed Lancelot into a hug, tucking his nose into the crook of Lancelot’s neck.  
The earth shifted beneath Lancelot’s feet, parting near soft dirt and swallowing him whole.

“I missed you so much,” Merlin whispered into his shirt, half choked up. “I was scared you hadn’t gotten my letter.” 

“Ridiculous,” Lancelot replied with a shaky scoff. “I keep them all, you know. Every single letter.” 

The warlock pulled away, wonder in his gaze. “Every single one?” 

“Yes.” 

Merlin stared. “Even the stupid ones?” 

“There aren’t any stupid ones, Merlin.” 

“Hmm,” Merlin said, thoroughly unconvinced but smiling wildly all the same. He picked up his sword, making a point to jab Lancelot lightly with it. “I’ll debate you on it later.” 

Lancelot was fairly certain he was dreaming. “I’m sure you will, once you’ve gotten me back up to speed.” “Right, right.” Merlin’s face closed off gradually, but the initial excitement was still there. He dragged Lancelot into the cave, introducing him to the other strangers, all fighters like him, who sought Camelot’s freedom and justice: Elyan, Gwaine, Leon. 

Lancelot shook their hands, examined their scars and well earned marks. Felt the kindly gaze of Merlin occasionally watching him from Arthur’s side, before returning his attention to the prince for the duration of their time. Merlin caught his eye at some point and grinned, eyes twinkling with the smallest trace of gold.

Percival watched them both, at Lancelot distractedly staring at an occupied Merlin from across the space, and kept his words to himself. 

He’d known Lancelot long enough to know exactly what he was thinking. Certainly long enough to know that he was wearing his heart on his sleeve, to know that for the first time since he had met Percival and shaken his hand hello, that Lancelot felt _safe._

Percival set his jaw. Straightened his shoulders, crossed his arms. 

He would simply say nothing. Yes, that would work. For now, he would say absolutely nothing of the sort.

**Author's Note:**

> chill with me on twitter @hawthorias to hear me ramble about the mercelot dynamic and music jargon for hours on end until you are inevitably sucked into the void. thanks for reading, comment or kudos if you want to, have a lovely day


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